


Here Be Dragons

by OkayAristotle, Romiress



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Historical Fantasy, Knotting, M/M, Sex in human forms, Slade Wilson is a Good Dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25343959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/pseuds/Romiress
Summary: When Bruce is tasked with slaying a dragon rampaging through a nearby kingdom, he doesn't know what he's getting into.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Slade Wilson
Comments: 35
Kudos: 220





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalech](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalech/gifts).



> 🎉 Happy Birthday Kalech! 🎉

Nothing good ever happens from Bruce being called.

For the most part, he wanders: he finds his jobs himself by chasing down leads. He is an _investigator,_ as much as he's allowed to investigate. He has no true allegiances, is a citizen of no land, a member of no sect. He wanders, and in that wandering finds the answers he seeks.

Sometimes the jobs find him. Sometimes he passes across a toll bridge and is granted free passage, but is strongly suggested to head in a certain direction. Sometimes they ask him to wait, and someone official comes to fetch him.

But what's happening right then is the worst kind of option: someone has specifically gone out of their way to track him down and request his presence. He _could_ say no (he bows to no king, and a king's summons means nothing to him so long as he stays out of their kingdom until they pass on), but he prefers to stay in as many people's good graces as he can, and the messenger makes things sound dire.

If anything, the messenger has undersold it. They take horses to their destination, and before they've even crossed the border there's signs of devastation. Bruce can see the smoke, and the closer they get the more smoke there seems to be.

The trip to the palace are like scenes straight from Banthara's conflagration. Huge chunks of land have been burnt down to nothing but ash, burnt so black that there's not a speck of green. Some villages still stand, but others are simply gone, obliterated in what Bruce knows must be dragon fire.

A pack, if he had to guess. There's too much burning in the small land for it to be one dragon.

The castle shows signs of damage as well: a dragon's strafed the west side, melting the wall to slag and leaving the castle almost undefended. Really, Bruce is surprised it's still standing: the decision to melt a wall and leave the castle itself untouched seems almost planned. It's possible the dragons are being controlled by someone, but he doesn't have enough evidence to actually propose his theory just then.

The king is a tall, sharp man, his hair gone grey with age. He sits on the throne with a practiced ease, his fingers steepled in front of him. When he speaks, there's a foreign lilt to his words: he's not from nearby, but not from too far away, either.

"I assume I don't need to point out the issue we're facing," the king says, and Bruce offers a brief smile. No, he doesn't need to point it out. He knows, because it's impossible to miss all the telltale signs of dragon fire that mar the land.

"I would spend time working out terms with you, but I understand you have a reputation for pricing yourself fairly, and the information we've gained is so recent that I fear it'll be lost if any more time is wasted. The Dragon has taken up residence on the mountains to the east of the castle, no more than a day's ride from here. It's by far the best chance you'll have of killing the beast."

"Just one?" It seems highly unlikely at best, but then he has no idea how long this particular dragon's been terrorizing the area. He'd like to ask, but time is clearly of the essence.

"Just one. A great black beast. It'll show you no mercy and give you no quarter."

Bruce needs little other explanation. He's fed while the horses are prepared and armored, his gear being polished in front of him. Much of what he carries on him is unique and valuable, and he refuses to let it leave his sight. He's all too happy to go at the earliest opportunity, taking the horse and riding it hard to the east.

Travelling is easy going. There are few people on the road, and those that are get out of his way quickly. They're all heading west, away from the mountains in the distance, and there's no question as to why as Bruce grows closer.

The ground around the mountain has been burned to nothing by the dragon that now lives there, a massive ring of nothing but blackened soil. It's almost like the cleared space around a castle, open ground that offers no shelter at all.

He has no choice to ride into it full tilt. He's tired, having ridden through the night, but the king is right: if he waits, the dragon might well move on, and he'll have lost it again. A dragon's flight will always be faster than even the most finely bred of horses, and he needs to take advantage of the dragon's rest.

The mountain is too steep for any horse, so he leaves his mount at the base, untied and able to flee if needed. It won't outrun a dragon, but it might provide a distraction. Even more then that, he's not willing to leave the animal tied up where it wouldn't even have the option to _run_ from the dragon.

I deserves a chance to run the same way any human does.

Bruce scales the mountain, happy it isn't one of the taller ones. Dragons, for all their reputation, tend to nest not in caves but as close to the sky as they can get. He just has to keep climbing, and even if he doesn't find it right away, he'll be able to see it from the peak.

Or them. He still hasn't ruled out the possibility that there's more than one: it'd hardly be the first time someone had mistaken multiple dragons for a single _very_ active one, and Bruce knows better than to make assumptions.

There's an all too distinctive sound—unrecognizable to the average man, but unmistakably the sound of a dragon breathing fire—that tells Bruce he's close. He angles himself carefully, drawing his sword as his progress slows to a crawl. Up ahead, he can sound the crack of burning wood—probably a small bit of forest on the mountain side that's being burned to make way for the dragon to rest in.

Bruce crests the ridge and his stomach drops through the ground.

The dragon before him is massive. A particularly large dragon might be the size of a large house, a challenge to kill and something only really possible with a great deal of training. The one taking up the small valley _fills_ the space, more the size of an entire town than any one building. It's head alone is several times Bruce's size, and when it turns its head towards him, his blood goes cold.

It's not a dragon: it's a wyvern.

Few people know the difference, and to almost everyone they're just _dragons._ But Bruce knows the difference, and he knows what it implies: Dragons are small, strong, and stupid. They're hardly more than animals, and intensely dangerous to any humans who happen to be around them.

Wyverns are the opposite. They lack the forelegs of their smaller cousins, resting on their wings while on the ground. It makes them clumsier on land, but what they lack in land-based agility, they make up for in intelligence. Wyvern's are at least as smart as humans, if not more so, which means the empty space around the mountain was intentional, a way for the wyvern to keep watch for those coming.

More pressing is the size of it. A large wyvern—a hundred years old—is maybe twice the size of a large dragon. This one is several times that, meaning it has to be _hundreds_ of years old, a massive creature that could have destroyed the castle just by sitting on it.

Its scales are black, with frills of a vibrant orange color. The shape and positioning tells him that this particular wyvern is a male, but that isn't going to help him much at all. The only thing that might present any sort of tactical advantage is that the wyvern's right eye has been clawed out, the eye itself a sightless white, and the dragon's hide marked with numerous scars.

The other eye is a bright, almost _glowing_ blue, and there's no question in Bruce's mind that the wyvern is looking at him.

It turns, the scale of it downright jarring to Bruce's mind, and lifts itself up, looming over him. Too big. Too large. No amount of training will let him injure a creature whose scales must be thicker than the length of Bruce's sword. It's simply not possible, and as the wyvern opens its mouth, the cavernous maw glowing orange with fire, Bruce does the only thing he can.

"I'm here to negotiate!" he yells.

The wyvern falters, its massive head cocking to the side in a very humanlike gesture. The massive jaws close, and it seems to be considering. Bruce makes a point of sheathing his sword, knowing damn well it wouldn't help him anyway.

He sees his chance and goes for it.

"You wouldn't be doing this if there wasn't a reason. You've kept yourself exclusively to this lands borders, and you attacked the palace but only a wall. You're sending a message, and someone apparently isn't hearing it. That's why I'm here: to help you sort this out. To get to the bottom of this."

He was absolutely _not_ here to do any of those things, but he is now. He can't kill the wyvern, so all he can do is stop it from burning everything to the ground. Wyverns are smart enough to be negotiated with, and while it's by far the largest Bruce has dealt with, it's not his first time dealing with one.

"On whose authority?"

The wyvern's voice is like stone sliding across stone, so deep Bruce can feel it in his _bones._ Part of that is just the volume of it, almost deafening so close, but the tone plays a role as well.

"The kings."

The wyvern laughs. It seems fundamentally wrong, and Bruce feels strongly that wyverns _shouldn't_ laugh, but this one is, deep and mirthful as it tips his head back to laugh at the sky.

"Then you have been lied to."

Oh.

Bruce had wondered, really. The King had been very intent on not discussing the details, but the fact that the castle had been largely undamaged had struck him as strange. At the time, he'd chalked it up to urgency, considering the kingdom was in danger of burning to the ground, but now he knows better.

"They took something from you," Bruce says, choosing his words as carefully as he dares. "That's why you didn't burn the castle down."

He doesn't say it, but he knows immediately what it must be: an egg. An egg would risk being broken if the wyvern before him had melted the castle to slag. An egg is also one of the most valuable things someone could take: depending on who you talk to, the egg can grant anything up to immortality.

"Perhaps you're not as stupid as the rest of your kind." The wyverns head drops down almost to eye level, and Bruce suddenly has an up-close-and-personal view of the size of its (his?) teeth. "Then you should know my terms."

"I'll get your egg back, and you'll leave this place in peace."

"Bring the egg back _intact,"_ the wyvern growls. "If my child has died in the shell or been used for something unseemly, I'll burn this kingdom and everyone inside it to the ground."

Oh.

Bruce is struggling to think of a situation where the stakes were so high and coming up blank: it's a challenge that's going to require almost none of his sword skills, and the price of failure is too damned high.

If he succeeds, those who live in the kingdom will be spared.

If he fails, they'll be burnt to ash, and he'll burn with them.


	2. Chapter 2

His horse, thankfully, hasn't wandered far. It's really just wandered along the edge of the mountain, eating some scrub that hasn't been burned. It takes a bit of coaxing to get the horse back under control, and when he does get back on the road he takes it slow.

He road the horse _hard_ to reach the mountain in time, and he knows if he races back to the capitol the poor animal is liable to simply drop. There's no way to trade them out for a fresh horse, either, so he keeps a light walking pace, detouring a few times to get water or let the horse browse.

Hopefully the wyvern is understanding that not _everyone_ can just fly across the country.

The inn at the midway point between the mountain and the capital is abandoned, the front door boarded up. It's a slapdash job, obviously done in haste as they prepared to leave, and Bruce is happy enough to find that he can access the barn easily enough. There's no spare horses, all taken with the owner when they left, but there's room for his own horse and space in the stable for him to sleep.

Even if it smells, and the barn is less than pleasant, it's better than sleeping on the hard ground, and the exhaustion hits Bruce hard. By the time he wakes its well past dawn, and he has to drag himself from the barn, closing up behind him.

It's nearly lunch by the time he reaches the road again, but he's not desperate enough to break into the inn and see if they left anything behind. He can last until they reach town, and he doubts he'll run into any trouble before then.

He is, of course, completely wrong, because fate enjoys playing with him.

He's been riding two hours when he spots someone else in the distance: a man on horseback, riding in his direction. Bruce squints, wary, but keeps his horse's pace steady. It wouldn't be the first time he ran into bandits on the road, and he can't imagine why else someone would be heading towards the mountains. No one (but him, anyway) is stupid enough to head _towards_ a dragon intent on burning the whole damn kingdom down.

"Ho!" The man approaching him calls. He's a tall man, broad-shouldered and wearing some rudimentary armor dyed a very dark brown—or maybe more of a black. There's streaks of orange around his collar that Bruce thinks might be a second shirt, but it doesn't really matter. His horse is almost definitely not his, but Bruce doesn't give it more than a glance, focusing on the man himself: rough hands, scarred from a lifetime of use, and a face to match, his right eye hidden with an eye patch. His hair's pure white, but his age is hard to guess (maybe his fifties?). He's muscular, even handsome, but that isn't what draws Bruce's attention. "I was told there was an inn up ahead—do you know if it's still open?"

"Stop wasting both of our time, wyvern," Bruce says. He doesn't even slow down, nudging his horse to keep its previous pace as it heads on down the road, passing the man on the horse.

The man—Wyvern, actually—wheels his horse around expertly, nudging it into a trot until he falls in on Bruce's right side.

"What gave it away?"

He looks genuinely irritated, with all the arrogance of a man who has had a plan he believes to be perfect completely ruined.

Only his plan is, in a word, awful.

"It would be more accurate to ask what didn't give it away," Bruce grunts. "Your horse's bridle has a small green smudge on the cheek piece. In quite a few places that indicates that the horse was rented by someone who struck the seller as disreputable. It's a sign of caution. Your clothes are at least two decades out of date, look as if they haven't been worn in at least that long, and are in _black with orange accents._ "

"You knew we could take human form," the wyvern huffs, and Bruce rolls his eyes.

"No, I'm just not an idiot. When a man approaches me with one blue eye and one missing eye, I'm going to immediately think of the massive wyvern I just met who _also_ had a blue eye and was missing the other one."

Really, he's genuinely not sure why the wyvern thought that would fool _anyone._

"Hmmm," the wyvern says pointedly. "Well, I suppose there's no point in pretending. Yes, it's me."

"You don't say. And I assume you haven't come along out of the goodness of your heart."

"If you're going to find the egg, I want to be there," the wyvern says. "and I'll take it to safety myself."

Bruce suspects that the whole thing is as much about getting the egg as _killing whoever took it,_ but he keeps his mouth shut.

The fact is that there's not really any reason not to bring the wyvern along. He's undeniably going to be a strong fighter, and he seems to be able to pass himself off as a human just fine. It's not as if his greeting would have been all that suspicious to anyone else: most people wouldn't have noticed the smudge or paid so much attention to his gear. They'd just have thought him a bit _quaint,_ like he hadn't been in a real town in years.

Bruce simply had a major advantage and every intention to use it.

"Are you going to cause trouble?" He considers the potential of a human form, and decides after a moment it makes sense. He doubts dragons can take one (they'd be too obvious anyway, and he doubts they have the kind of intellect required), but wyverns? It explains how something so _big_ has managed to go unnoticed for so long.

They simply hide. They walk among humans when a massive dragon would be too easily found.

But Bruce also suspects something else: the wyvern beside him doesn't have thick scales or dragon hide. Bruce doubts he can breathe fire. For all intents and purposes, he appears to be a completely ordinary man.

If Bruce was ever going to try and kill him, right then would be his best chance. It would most likely save the kingdom. Many would say it was the best choice.

But he can't: not when he knows exactly why the wyvern is doing what he is. He'd spent years bothering no one, the exact kind of creature Bruce would have refused to hunt in the first place.

The wyvern's _egg_ was stolen. His _child._ No matter what he's done, Bruce can't truly hold it against him.

"My name is Bruce Wayne. Do you have a name of your own?"

"You couldn't hope to pronounce it."

Bruce bites back a retort. The wyvern probably means that _literally:_ Bruce doesn't have the throat structure to even _hope_ to speak whatever language wyvern's naturally speak. Pronouncing his name is beyond Bruce.

"Do you have something I could call you then?"

There's a pointed pause as the wyvern considers.

"Slade is a close enough approximation to my name."

"You'll need a family name if you plan to pass as a human."

"Wilson," Slade says without a moment of hesitation, and Bruce squints at him immediately.

"Who did you steal that from?"

"Some idiotic hunter who decided he was going to try and kill me. The pants are his."

"The shirt?"

"Convenient dead body. I didn't kill _that_ one, if you're so bothered."

The wyvern—Slade, apparently—isn't bad company for the ride. The conversation comes surprisingly easy, and he looks perfectly human to the point that as they approach the capital and start running into people no one bats an eye. If anything, _Bruce_ gets more attention, the crossbow on his back more immediately obvious of a distraction then Slade's out of date gear.

"Do we have a plan?" Slade asks, and Bruce wonders when exactly they became a _we._

 _"You_ are going to settle in and wait for me. _I_ am going to go handle things."

"The king won't negotiate."

"I didn't think he would. It's not going to be that kind of _handling."_

Slade pulls on the reigns, and the horse stops. There's not that many people around, but Bruce is _deeply_ wary of them being watched.

"I'm not going to sit around while you handle this."

"Go secure a place for me to fall back to. You're... well, you're _big._ You're not stealthy, and I'm going to need to be stealthy if you want me to find it without being caught."

"I can be stealthy."

Bruce sincerely doubts that, but he also doubts that Slade is going to just accept _stand over there and don't get in my way._ He's going to need to come up with a bit of a middle ground, something that will keep Slade busy.

After a moment, he comes up with a solution.

"Part of the problem is that we have no idea where they're hiding it."

"Him."

Bruce turns his head, squinting at Slade like he's not sure he just heard right.

"The egg?"

"Is a he."

Bruce has no idea how Slade knows that, but he decides not to ask. There's something strangely sweet about the fact that the egg is a _he,_ really.

"Part of the problem is that we don't know where they're hiding _him,"_ he corrects. "The castle is large, and has plenty of guards. I can't go checking every room." It'll probably be hidden in a place that's heavily guarded, even worse.

"You want me to make a distraction."

Slade seems to like that idea, because the corner of his mouth quirks up, showing teeth that seem slightly too sharp for the human mouth that's holding them.

"That would be the idea, yes. I'm assuming you have more variation than _completely human_ and _completely a wyvern?_ Something stronger but... not as large?"

"Human form's a pain to keep up... too weak and vulnerable. I can do a hybrid form that'll hold up to anything they try and throw at me."

"Well don't do it _here,"_ Bruce hisses. They're too close to the gates, and he's wary of being overheard. "Stick close to me."

Slade falls in behind him, their horses nearly running into each other. There are guards at the gate, but they seem distracted. Already, Bruce is second guessing himself: there are a million ways he could have done things, and if someone figures out who Slade is...

For that matter, Slade himself is a risk: his motivations, beyond getting the egg back, are unclear. Even assuming the best case scenario, that Bruce gets the egg back without bloodshed, there's a very good chance that Slade will simply kill him for it. Bruce _knows too much._ He's seen things he shouldn't, knows things no one else knows.

Bruce pushes the thought aside; it doesn't change anything about what he's doing, really. Whether or not Slade intends to kill him after, his choice is the same. He'll find the egg and keep innocents from dying. Right then, the only thing he needs to worry about is getting through the gates.

He doesn't need to have bothered worrying. He doesn't even have to show the seal the king gave him to gain access; he's simply waved in with hardly a second glance. The guards should, in theory, have _no idea_ who Slade is, and yet apparently he looks respectable enough that no one even cares to stop and ask.

"That was easy," Slade mutters when they're only _just_ out of earshot of the guards. Bruce glares at him, annoyed, and the wyvern lets out a laugh, drawing more attention Bruce doesn't need.

He needs to figure out the rest of his plan. There are a lot of details that are simply missing, things he hasn't given more than a passing moment of thought.

He's going to need to sort them all out before they put the plan into action, but time is short.

"I have the start of a plan," Bruce says simply. "Will you work with me?"

Slade's gaze is fire on his skin, the consideration running through the wyvern's thoughts blatantly obvious. He's thinking about it. Judging Bruce and his intentions. Judging what sort of plan he might come up with. Slade's lost his egg to one human, and now he's deciding if he wants to trust a second to get it back.

Whatever Slade finds, apparently he's satisfied, because after a moment he offers a nod.

"Make sure it's a good one, because you only get one shot."

Not _we._

No, that's most definitely a _you_ only get one shot, and Bruce knows exactly what that entails: if the egg is destroyed, there will be consequences, and he's not arrogant enough to believe he'll be able to avoid them himself.


	3. Chapter 3

It's not the first time Bruce has had to break into somewhere. It's not even the first time he's had to break into a _castle._

But it is the first time he's done so with the knowledge that if he screws it up, a very angry wyvern is going to burn an entire country to the ground. The stakes feel impossibly high, and failure doesn't really feel like an option anymore.

The metal hook finds its place near the top of the castle, and Bruce is careful to secure it before he starts his ascent. Of course he's not stupid enough to put his entire weight on the line, but between that and his other tools, he's able to climb the mortared stone with relative ease.

It's _absolutely_ not the first time he's done that sort of thing.

The trick with castles, Bruce has found, is that once you're in everyone assumes you're supposed to be there, and almost no one thinks to secure the higher levels. He slips in an upper window, pulling his cloak around him and sticking to the shadows.

There's a reason he chose for the whole thing to happen at night: the castle's lighting is poor, and there are plenty of corners to hide in. More than once he slides into a nook, letting a guard or a member of the staff slip by as he works his way to a nice mid point of the castle. He waits until he has a good view, and then he settles in.

He guesses it's been an hour when he first hears signs of trouble: in the distance, someone is yelling. A moment later, a cook goes bustling past, getting well away from the front.

Guards go right past Bruce, oblivious to his presence, talking about dragons.

Well, _dragon._ And Slade isn't even an actual dragon: he's a wyvern, not that anyone but him is likely to know the difference.

The plan is simple enough: he's in a good position, capable of watching whats coming and going. Slade's going to roll in, cause a whole lot of trouble, and draw _most_ of the guards away.

But not all. Unless the king is completely incompetent, some of his guards are going to move to protect the egg, the most valuable thing in the whole castle.

And right on queue, a small group of guards goes past Bruce, heading not for the front of the castle where Slade's causing trouble, but instead towards the rear.

Bruce waits for them to pass and then falls in behind them.

Over the sound of their own footsteps, there's not a chance in hell they'll hear him, and he keeps his distance in such a way that none of them even think to look back. They're in a hurry, descending underground as the castle gives way to what seems to be a natural cave system that's been expanded out.

Bruce wants to say _a dungeon,_ only he knows where the dungeons are and this isn't it.

At least some of it is storage, which the guards pass by easily. Down here, Bruce has to be a great deal more careful, going slower and slower. At one point he even loses sight of the guards, and has to take a risky dash ahead to catch up.

The moment he finds it, he knows he's at the right place. There's a heavy door set into the wall, and no less than eight guards near it. They appear to be changing places, and as Bruce watches, crouched against the wall, four of them leave, heading back the way the original set came.

Probably only one way in or out, which means he's going to have to be fast and careful. He pulls his cowl down, hiding his features, and then darts forward.

The guards don't have a chance. Even though there's four of them, the hallway is so tight that their numbers aren't much of an advantage at all. They're trained, but so is Bruce, and he has the element of surprise. He's knocked two down before anyone's even managed to draw their weapon, and while he takes the third out easily, the fourth requires him to pull a dagger, fending off a sword strike.

He should probably make a point of not being so overconfident, because it nearly kills him.

He disarms his opponent, stepping into the man's space and causing him to instinctively back up. That gives him the opportunity he needs to slam his head forward, knocking the man to the ground in one solid blow.

He's not stupid: he makes absolutely sure that all of the guards is either out (or out _enough)_ and bound before he tries the door.

It's locked, and Bruce curses under his breath at the delay, bending down and retrieving his lock picking kit. So far down he has no idea what's happening up above. The castle could be on fire for all he knows. Slade could be dead.

The idea causes an unfortunate twinge in his gut. He barely _knows_ the idiot, but he can't help but feel for him. His _child_ was stolen, and Bruce can't say he wouldn't have burned down half the kingdom if he was in Slade's shoes.

He doesn't deserve to die. He deserves to have his child back.

The door clicks open, and Bruce presses his ear to it, listening for sound on the other side. There's nothing obvious, and he's waited long enough as is, so he simply pushes the door open.

It _is_ a storage room, but one with all sorts of valuables... all of a very obvious theme. The more Bruce looks, the more he recognizes: the room is full of tomes and reagents, filled to the brim with a mages touch.

The king, Bruce suspects, must at least dabble. He's not quite sure he believes there ever _was_ magic, but he knows that if there was, it probably died with the gods all those years ago. Just the same, he knows that some people believe in it. Some people believe that magic is _real,_ and something as potent as a dragon's egg would be the perfect way to access it.

Which is why when he spots the egg on a pedestal near the back of the room, Bruce isn't surprised.

It's large for an egg but small for a dragon, maybe twice the size of Bruce's head. The outer shell is a matted black, the texture not unlike that of Slade's scales. There really isn't any question whose egg it is, and when he approaches the egg he holds his hand out, hesitating before touching it.

 _Him,_ he corrects himself. Apparently Slade somehow knows that the egg is a him.

Feeling deeply silly about the whole thing, Bruce rests his hand against the side, surprised by how warm the egg is. It practically _pulses_ with life, which is a sigh of relief on its own.

They aren't dead.

"Hey little guy," he says quietly, feeling increasingly silly. "I know your hands are kind of tied here, but I'm going to get you back to your dad right now. He's just waiting outside."

There is, predictably, no response, so Bruce scoops the egg up into his arms. The damn thing is heavy, and he realizes quickly that if he runs into any trouble, _he's_ going to be in big trouble. Getting out of the castle with a massive egg in his arms without getting caught sounds like what nightmares are made of.

But he's going to have to.

He steps carefully over the prone bodies of the guards outside, ignoring all the other valuables in the room. He can't focus on anything else. The egg can't just be his main priority: it has to be his _only_ priority.

He's going to have to either be hugely lucky or hugely skilled to make it out alive, and he ends up being neither. He's barely halfway back to the ground floor, working his way along a too-narrow hallway, when he runs into a set of guards on the way down.

Bruce stares up at them. They stare back. There's a half second where Bruce has time to figure out a plan, and he knows he'll only get one single chance.

He thrusts his hands forward, egg clutched between them, and hopes that whatever is in the egg isn't actually aware.

"I'll drop it."

One of the guards laughs, apparently confused. Bruce doesn't blame them—he didn't expect them to.

That's also part of the plan.

"I drop this egg and it cracks. It's useless to your king—" A complete lie, considering the eggshell would still have value, but there's zero chance any random guard is going to know that. "—but more importantly, it'll end this kingdom for good."

The guards falter. Bruce is speaking with such absolute certainty that it's giving them reason to doubt, and he does what he can to keep it up even as his arms start to ache from holding the egg out the way he is.

"The dragon up there—" Wyvern, but the average person doesn't even know there _is_ a difference. "—has only spared this place because it thinks it can get this egg back intact." It kills Bruce having to call Slade an _it,_ but he has a role to play. "The moment it finds out the egg is destroyed, it'll stop playing nice. It'll torch the borders and set fire to the land. Everyone in this country will burn to death before nightfall. You, your family, your children..."

"You'll burn too," one of the guards says, as if that's some sort of _gotcha._

"If I don't return with the egg, I'm doomed anyway. Let me go with the egg. Let me take it back. Some might die, but at least _most_ will live. At least the dragon can be lured away so it won't burn everything to the ground. At least your families might get to live."

They hesitate. Bruce is appealing not just to their higher nature, but to their own selfishness: they care about themselves and those close to them, not the dragon whose child was stolen. Bruce just has to make sure that helping both amounts to the same thing.

One of the guards at the back grabs the arm of the man in front, pulling him back.

"Let him go," he murmurs quietly. "You've seen that dragon. Do you really think we could handle it? Do you really think the king is _prepared_ for this?"

It's working. They're doubting, and that's all Bruce needs. He takes a step forward, watching with satisfaction as the guards pull back.

He holds the egg a bit closer to his body, and advances in silence. They let him go, the fear and nerves written on their face. For them, there's no telling if they'll live. There's no telling if the king is going to execute them for losing the egg. For them, it must feel like an absolutely lose-lose situation, and yet Bruce can't allow himself to feel sympathetic.

He keeps his attention on the guards as he works his way towards the back gate, his originally planned exit point. If anything, Bruce can't help but feel like this works out easier for him: rather than trying to figure out how to get out of the castle from the door without anyone spotting him, he instead effectively gets _escorted_ by the guards.

Bruce keeps his mouth shut as he's lead outside, refusing to push his luck. He's just to the gate when someone starts _screaming,_ and the moment the guards turn to look into the screaming, Bruce bolts.

The plan was for him to set off a little explosive—obvious and impossible to miss, made by Slade himself—but it's hard to do while also balancing the egg. He's well away from the castle and nestled in a corner before he sets it off, and only then, staring up at the red sparks in the sky, does he start to head towards the meeting point.

Slade will come soon. He'll come and he'll take the egg, and then... then they'll leave, probably. Take the egg and simply go, leaving for somewhere safe. Shelter in some far off mountain, maybe.

And Bruce?

Bruce has no idea what's going to happen next for him.


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce waits beneath the tree at the top of the hill and wonders if he's made a mistake. This is their meeting point, the place they were supposed to find each other once everything was done, but it's been almost thirty minutes since he got there and there's still no sign of Slade.

Not a good sign. He doesn't want to believe that Slade's in danger, but it _is_ possible that he's actually been hurt. Or captured. His human form _is_ a lot more fragile than his wyvern form, and what if the King _is_ magic and knows some way to stop him from changing?

Bruce hunkers down lower, his arms holding the egg tight. He savors its warmth, the chill of the air a harsh contrast.

"Your dad better get here soon," Bruce mutters to it. "I don't want to have to go looking for him."

He really doesn't. He doesn't like anything about what that entails.

There's a noise in the distance, and Bruce perks up, squinting into the darkness. His night vision has always been good, and down below he can see a figure starting to climb the hill.

They seem too big. Bruce is having a hard time gauging, but he swears they have to be over ten feet. The closer they get, the more things Bruce notices: not only are they too large to be an ordinary human, but when they tilt their head back, Bruce sees the outline of a pair of _horns_ jutting from their head.

Well, no question who that is.

"Slade!" He calls. If anyone was coming after him, they'd have done so already. Even more then that, now that Slade's there, someone would have to be downright idiotic to attack him.

Slade's appearance is quite different from when Bruce left him. Dark patches of scales litter his skin, and his one good eye appears to be glowing slightly in the dark. His eyepatch is gone, misplaced at some point, and two white horns protrude from his temples, mimicking the horns he has in his true form.

But that isn't what draws Bruce's attention the most.

His attention is instead torn by two completely different (and completely jarring) details.

One: Slade's been splattered with blood. There's blood on his face, blood around his mouth, and most notably blood on his hands. It lends him a strange, almost wild look, like he's truly the monster the very first messenger had claimed he was.

Two: Slade's holding a large black egg in his arms.

It's not _quite_ a match for the one in Bruce's own arms; the one Slade has is a little bit smaller, a little bit less rough. It's still a _really damned big egg,_ but it's not the giant thing Bruce is still carrying. He doesn't bother trying to lift it, leaving the egg he was holding on the ground as he stands up straight.

"What—"

He's... alright, he's not entirely sure what it means. Two eggs? He'd been sure the egg he'd found was Slade's simply because of the texture, and finding out that it isn't...

"You found him," Slade says, a breathless, awed quality to his voice, and throws Bruce for another loop.

"I... am not sure if I found the right thing," Bruce is forced to admit. He doesn't understand. He's stumbled and found himself face-down in a bog for all he understands about the situation.

But Slade's attention is elsewhere. He crosses the distance between them in a blink, faster than a man his size should be able to, and crouches down, reaching out to rest one clawed hand against the side of the shell. The noises he makes are soft and soothing, and he pulls the egg a bit closer, resting his cheek against it to feel the eggs warmth.

He looks... happy. Content. The joy he's feeling is palpable, the relief unmistakable. Bruce thinks there might even be tears in his eyes, and it makes Bruce's own stomach do a flip.

"You found him," Slade says again. "I thought he was dead."

"What... I thought there was _one_ egg?" Bruce's eyes fall to the smaller egg, still held in Slade's arm.

"There _was_ one egg. The first one _went missing_ thirty years ago when I was stupid enough to leave it unguarded. My old mate took issue with my failure." Slade gestures to the scarring and damage to his right eye. "I'd assumed the egg was long since broken, but this... he's still in there. He just needs some heat and he'll hatch soon."

Wyverns work at a time scale that's apparently _very_ different from a human, so Bruce clears his throat and asks.

"You said they were taken thirty years ago—" Which, now that he thinks about it, means the egg was taken just before the new king had taken over. "—how soon is _hatching soon?"_

"A year," Slade says, and then after some consideration corrects. "Maybe two."

Oh. So not any time soon, then.

"And the other?" He looks pointedly at the smaller.

"He has longer to go. Another decade or two before he's ready. When he was taken... I wasn't gone for more than a few minutes, just to check who had set off one of my traps. A diversion, apparently, but the king's paid for it dearly."

Slade's lips pull back to reveal too-sharp teeth. The form he's in right then could never pass for human, and yet at the same time Bruce realizes that it's at least more humanoid then it was when it came up the hill. Slade is still tall and broad, but he's not the _giant_ he was before he saw the egg Bruce found. His horns, similarly, look a bit less over-sized, and the scales are more patchy.

More human, but still wild.

Because he's calm? Or because he doesn't want to alarm Bruce?

"What now?"

Bruce doesn't even want to ask, but he does anyway. His mouth feels dry. What else is there, really? Slade will take the eggs, he'll go, and the kingdom will owe Bruce a debt they'll never repay. The king is dead (of that Bruce has no illusions), the dragon's alive, and Bruce is an accomplice to them.

He's going to have to head west for his own safety until things have died down.

"I need to take these to shelter," Slade says. "I have a cabin that's a good distance from here. Protected from the elements."

He shakes his head almost like a horse, and Bruce watches in fascination as the skin around Slade's scale patches starts to flake away. When he speaks, his voice is _insanely_ guttural.

"You might want to look away. Humans always seem alarmed by this."

Bruce can't tear his eyes away. There's a beauty in it, in watching Slade's human form fall to pieces as his wyvern form asserts itself. Everything becomes _bigger,_ the scales darkening, the human features vanishing as Slade strips out of the armor, dropping it on the ground. Bruce accepts the offered second egg as Slade's arms begin to become wings, no longer capable of holding the way he once was. There's something amazing about the change, bu it's also dangerous: Bruce is forced repeatedly to pull back with the eggs as Slade's size dwarfs him.

Bruce genuinely isn't even clear what's supposed to happen. He simply stands there and gawks, watching as Slade's handsome human form becomes something so much _more._

"You'll have to secure them as I fly," Slade says, casual as can be. He doesn't even give Bruce a chance to protest, just scoops him up, eggs and all, in his hind claws.

It is not a comfortable flight. It's Bruce trying to keep two eggs from bumping into each other, unable to even keep himself sitting up straight. He's jostled around, held in a sort of cup made of Slade's rear feet, and he does what he can to make a nest with Slade's armor for the eggs to keep them apart. It doesn't _hurt,_ and he's not in any danger, but he can't help but feel that flying on Slade's _back_ would have been a whole lot better.

They don't fly very long, at least: it can't have been twenty minutes before Slade starts to drop, sinking down towards the ground. It's _cold,_ so Bruce suspects they've flown north, but he's having a hard time gauging anything with the warm of the eggs on either side of him.

They land in the mountains, Slade carefully depositing both Bruce and the eggs before beginning to shift back.

Which, Bruce realizes half a second too late, makes him _very_ nude. He scrambles to provide Slade with his clothes before busying himself with the eggs and pointedly _not_ looking, but Slade only bothers to half-dress himself, slinging the rest of his armor over his shoulder before scooping up the smaller egg. He holds it like a human would a baby, trailing his clawed hands across it: he doesn't seem interested in passing fully as human again, but he's once again humanoid enough that Bruce has to tear his eyes away to pick up the other egg.

They have places to go, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

The hike up the mountain from where they've landed is short, and in a small valley Bruce finds the _shelter_ Slade has to offer him. 

If a building could look pathetic, this was it. Hunched in, like it didn't want to be noticed by weary travelers, barely two floors tall with a sagging roof. But it had a door and protection from the elements. All they could ask for, really. 

And Bruce’s arms were beginning to shake with exertion. Wyvern eggs weigh a _lot,_ and Bruce hadn't had nearly as much sleep over the last forty-eight hour as he would have liked _._ Slade powers ahead without any such signs of difficulty, which begs the question why he isn't carrying both, or at least the larger one.

It's hard not to notice the silence, really. He hasn't spoken since they took off, and back on the ground he feels almost harder to read. It could simply be the patches of scales over Slade's temples and cheeks, or perhaps the set of his jaw, but Bruce can't figure out what he's thinking. Relief should be obvious. It should be clear. When Slade ushers him inside first, one blue eye on the egg Bruce is holding, Bruce frowns. 

The quietness is unsettling, to say the least.

As much as he'd like to think otherwise, Slade is still dangerous. Even more so, with eggs to protect. Tying up loose ends, those in the know — it doesn't take long to see where that would get Bruce. The fact that there's been zero information about what Slade is doing, and the fact that he simply _took Bruce along without asking_ feel jarring, and the more seconds that tick by, the stupider Bruce feels for having gone along with Slade so easily. He might be unfathomably handsome, and rather quick witted, but he's still a wyvern at heart. 

Inside is not much better than the outside. But as Slade shuts the front door and kicks a lonely piece of furniture in front of it — a rudimentary alarm at best if someone were to wander in — the cooling air is locked out, and the wind stops in its tracks, howling to be let in.

Bruce squints into the dark, a scant bit of light left to illuminate things. Enough that he doesn't trip on a waterlogged rug, or bump into any walls, the egg held tightly in his arms. He presses it closer to his chest, wraps up a loose corner of his cloak around it, and takes the stairs behind Slade. He seems to know where he's going. Can probably see just fine, in fact. 

"We'll rest here." Slade says. The first thing he's said in what feels like forever. Head bowed as he climbs the stairs, it's difficult to catch his expression.

"Are we far enough away?" Bruce questions, jerking his head back the way they came. "You killed their king. They might send someone after us."

Slade snorts, more of a growl. "I'd like to see them try." Bruce swears that in the dark Slade is actually _glowing_ ever-so-slightly, and it's by that light that Bruce navigates now, lead down the hallway to a sizable bedroom.

He cocks his head. A fireplace, tucked into the corner. The chimney must have been a scant foot tall for Bruce to have missed it from outside. "You should light the fire."

"I do nothing on your command." Slade murmurs, and yet moves anyway, coming to rest on one knee. The care with which he handles the egg is distracting, almost fussing with it as he sets it down and dusts it clear of soot.

Clumsier, Bruce mimics him, leaving the egg wrapped in his cloak for protection. The fragile life inside needs as much protection as it can get. Side by side, the texture of the shell is almost identical, more so when Slade lights the fireplace with stolen blankets from the rickety bed and nothing but his breath. 

Bruce lets out a sigh tinged with relief and exhaustion. It's been an incredibly long day.

He stands anyway, watching the fire hungrily devour the frayed edges of the blankets.

"How am I supposed to rest with no blankets?"

Slade pauses, a hand reached out to touch the flames. "I'll keep you warm." He finally says. He's not flirting, just final: the matter is decided. "It is the least I could do for you." 

"I—" Bruce hesitates. There's hardly any other options, and he _is_ cold. "Thank you." He finally murmurs, waiting a beat before he heads to the bed. It creaks under his weight, not a good sign for the two of them together, but it should hold. He _wills_ it to hold, because he is not sleeping on the floor tonight.

Kicking off his shoes is akin to an orgasm, the soles of his feet sore and overworked. Riding a horse all the way to the mountain and back had been bad enough, but being carried around in Slade's claws had done nothing for him, apparently, just leaving him tender in new and interesting ways. Bruce peels off his socks and discards them in the direction of the fire to be warmed.

"You're sore." Slade states.

"Yes." Bruce murmurs. "It tends to happen." 

Bruce begins undressing as much as he's comfortable to when the room is still chilled, and watches with curiosity as Slade fusses over the eggs. Minute shifts of their position, wiping dust from their shells with the tips of his fingers, claws never leaving a mark.

The focus is almost endearing, Slade's eyebrows tugged together tightly as he works. He tightens Bruce's cloak around the second egg, fiddling with the strap. "I wanted to thank you." He murmurs. Nudges the eggs closer together. "For your services."

"I don't do this for thanks." Bruce replies.

"Maybe not," Slade agrees, mouth tipped into something that would be a smile on anything less dangerous. Even with the shape of a human, he's still incredibly _other_ , the shift of his skin not quite right. "But my kind don't forget easily when favours are done." He traces a finger across the tips of both eggs, a mindless pattern. "And this is surely a favour."

"I don't expect anything in return, Slade." He says, because it needs to be clear. Payment or thanks are not necessary. It's enough seeing both eggs safe, well cared for.

"Wyverns are generous with their thanks." He adds, voice gone quiet and warm, sliding over Bruce's nerves like molten lava. "Incredibly generous." The meaning is not lost on him, even as tired and ready to sleep as he is.

In the firelight, and the quiet of the room, it sets Bruce's heart beating oddly. "I'm sure." He says with a tongue like lead. "But I—"

"Wyverns also don't care what you think. You want me, clearly." Slade smirks, turning on one knee to look Bruce up and down like meat. "And you don't want coin, or to be thanked. The obvious answer is that your travels are lonely. When was the last time you—"

"Slade."

He receives an amused, pointed eyebrow, Slade rising to his full height. Something about the set of his shoulders has Bruce feeling smaller than ever, the gait of his walk, smooth and fluid and full of wonderful intention. Bruce swallows down saliva thickly.

"What are you doing?"

"I told you," Slade murmurs, and _oh,_ his hands are unfastening shirt buttons, starting to tug it free from tight pants. "Keeping you warm."

Without much asking, Slade nudges Bruce's thighs wide, inserting himself there to finish divesting his shirt. What's left is fascinating, pale skin and dark patches of scales that blend seamlessly into each other. A thick trail of hair that begs Bruce's eyes lower to the still fastened pants, Slade's head tilted with amusement when Bruce chances a look up again.

"I'm— I'm fine, really, Slade I don't need—" Bruce cuts off, caught incredibly close to some _fantastic_ abs, every ridge of muscle pronounced and enticing. It has been a long time.

When Slade smirks, it only serves to highlight sharp teeth and the predatory glint in his eye.

"See something you like?" He asks, all but preening. Bruce narrows his eyes. It's with a practiced motion that Slade climbs into bed, slotting into place perfectly — like they do this all the time, comfortable as lovers.

Bruce stares at his socks for a long, quiet moment, aware of the hands that grip his hips. Slade tugs, gentle and inviting. It's so easy to let himself be pulled back, nudged until he's horizontal and pressed against Slade from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes.

"Oh," Bruce murmurs, almost involuntary. Heat pools off Slade to seep through Bruce's layers like wandering hands, most especially from where Slade's undressed. He frowns, but settles down anyway, acutely focused on the hand that rubs circles into his hip.

He knows exactly what Slade's up to.

But the wyvern isn't wrong, either. Between the fireplace and Slade's bared skin, Bruce is warmed to his bones shortly, nearly sweating. It's the kind of warmth he rarely manages on the road, resting in abandoned places and empty taverns. The luxury is enough to have Bruce's eyes dragged down with exhaustion, the tension bleeding from his muscles.

"That wasn't so bad." Slade murmurs, his voice incredibly close to the shell of Bruce's ear. "Was it?"

"I saw through your disguise," Bruce replies evenly. "I see through this, too."

The other man laughs quietly, fingers dancing over Bruce's hipbone fleetingly. "I don't know what you mean." Bruce almost believes him, _almost_ because the well of sincerity in Slade's voice is like molasses, trustworthy and incredibly easy to sink into.

And then his hand cups Bruce's cock and squeezes tightly. Electric jolts through Bruce's middle immediately, some long-forgotten urge making itself known tenfold and _yes, it has been a while._ He bites his tongue.

"Skin-to-skin contact is best for warming." Slade adds, and then fingers the fastening of Bruce's pants, barely asking permission. A warm mouth nips the tip of his ear, teeth turned sharp.

He makes to reply and finds it cut off by a broad hand wrapping around his cock, warmer than any body Bruce has ever felt and far more talented when he twists his wrist. "Fuck," he gasps, fumbling to hold onto Slade's arm. It shouldn't be so madenning, just being _touched._

"Yeah?" Slade murmurs, absolute nonsense when the grip of his palm has Bruce's heart thudding in his chest. "You like that?"

He moans, mouth pressed to the thin pillow underneath him. _Like_ doesn't begin to cover it. "Oh," he mumbles. Pushing at Slade's hand is futile but he tries with skittering fingers, no real intention there and his insides clench when Slade's laugh turns into a rumble. "You should stop or I—"

"Or what?" He asks. Punctuates it with a twist of his hand, one thumb pressed harshly to the underside of his cock. "You'll come undone, so pretty for me?" Slade hums. "I'd like that."

Bruce groans, trying to muffle the sound and failing miserably. It has been an _incredibly_ long time since he's been touched quite like this. Slow and fervent, indulgent when Slade jerks his cock, prying every ounce of pleasure from Bruce's tightly-held control.

If the rest of it is like this, he might just sob with need.

Maybe that's clear, maybe it's obvious in the tense line of Bruce's body against his, because Slade quickens his pace. Flexes his fingers and wraps them around his cock twice as tight, the movement of his hand fluid. Bruce digs his nails into Slade's forearm and bucks, fucks into the tight heat of his hand, another moan escaping when Slade's teeth skate across his neck.

"You have no idea—" Bruce grunts, "—how bad I've wanted this." In response, Slade's teeth dig into his skin. Just a hint of pressure but it's enough to have Bruce baring more, Slade's growl reaching new depths. "All I've thought about."

"Could have fooled me." Slade murmurs, no real heat to his words. His fingers slow to trace along the vein of his cock, feather-light and infuriating.

Bruce moans. "I was a little busy." And he _was_. Everything had been fast, let alone how quickly he'd become used to this — sharing his space with a wyvern, able to read Slade's features like a book on occasion. But it was there, in the back of his mind.

How striking Slade had looked, pale skin and one haunting blue eye, when he was human. How Bruce had itched to touch, feel that skin for himself. How good Slade had looked, splattered with warm blood, grinning in satisfaction.

How Bruce had wanted to touch him, even then. Be undone, even then. His next breath trembles from his lungs, Bruce's eyes squeezed shut against the skilled hand around him.

"That's it." Slade murmurs. The hint of teeth turns kind, more of a kiss. "You can let go." Bruce curses and grips Slade's arm tight enough his nails ache.

And after, the king dead and Bruce left with fresh, jarring memories to swallow, Slade had looked _glorious_. More enchanting than even his full form, perhaps, eye alight with such an old anger.

Scales and claws and teeth, and Bruce had wanted it all.

He groans again, shudders when his orgasm builds in his gut, only pushed on by Slade's teeth again. Needlepoints dig in, teasing to break the skin, and Bruce presses against his strong chest, holds on for dear fucking life as he spills into Slade's fist. Light from the fireplace warms Bruce's eyelids, washing everything in orange.

"That's it." Slade rumbles. "Good, did so good for me," he squeezes, clawing a whimper from Bruce's throat. "So good, you don't even know." He presses hot, open mouthed kisses to the back of Bruce's neck, the curve of his ear. "You have no idea what it is you've done for me."

He breathes hard, and tries to form anything close to a sentence. Eventually, Bruce gives up, and basks instead in the heat surrounding him, and Slade's steady words spoken against his ear.

They stay like that for a while, Slade's hand withdrawing from his cock to instead trace lazy, light patterns over Bruce's abdomen.

"You really think two years is soon?" He mumbles, not quite sure why it pops into his mind. He flicks his gaze to the twin eggs, warming by the fire.

Slade rumbles. "Very soon." A note of excitement colours his words, a very endearing thing to hear from the wyvern.

Bruce opens his mouth, and then hesitates. Slade's claws _are_ awfully close to his internal organs. "Can I see them? When they're hatched." Against his ear, Slade inhales sharply, and Bruce fears for a moment he's about to have his gut clawed open but all that happens is Slade tugging him over until they're facing.

Slade's gaze flicks across his face for a tense second, searching for something. He must find it, whatever it is, because his eye drops lower, almost a physical weight on Bruce's mouth. "You brought them back to me." Slade murmurs. "You can have anything you want. Anything I have to give."

The words are _powerful_ , no easy promise to make and Bruce's chest tightens at the implications there. A wyvern can change the tide of a _war._ And Slade is offering it all, just for this — two eggs, and a dead king.

Bruce swallows hard. "Anything?"

Slade hums, a noise too low for humans to ever make, and leans an inch closer. "I said anything."

"How about—" He hesitates again, wills his hands not to shake or his thunderous heart to give him away, and reaches out. Touches the scales over Slade's chest, the hard ridges against smooth skin, hot to the touch. "This?"

"You want to touch me." Slade states and something about his tone has Bruce turning pink. "I said anything."

"Yes. Have you— Have you had anyone since—?" He asks. Finds himself excited at the thought that he might be the first in a long time. First in decades, and his hands itch to touch more.

"One or two since." Slade replies, blue eye flicking toward the youngest egg. "None quite like you."

Bruce snorts. "I'm a traveller. About as rare as sand on the shore, I'm afraid." He flattens his palm over Slade's chest, noting the heavy beat of a heart under protective scales.

"I disagree." Slade exhales, almost a pleased sigh. "Nothing that belongs to me is common." He says it so calmly that Bruce nearly brushes past it entirely, looking up at the last second to find a flash of true dragon nature there. Possessive. One of the few things wyverns and dragons share in spades.

"And you think I'm yours."

Slade smirks, sharp teeth peeking through. "I do."

He's not given any time to think up a response to that, every thought dissolving as Slade's mouth crushes into his. _Hungry_ is the only word for it, messy and full of teeth, Bruce struggling to keep up with the heat there.

He tastes a little like blood. Kisses like he wants to devour Bruce whole and keep him forever, a feeling that goes straight to his cock, hardening again.

Slade growls into his mouth, bites his lip just shy of breaking the skin. Every slide of his tongue against Bruce's is hot like a brand, _mine mine mine_ clear in every harsh inhale of breath. Bruce digs his nails in and gets to experience the rumble of Slade's groan up close and personal.

Slade breaks away first, most likely entirely for Bruce's benefit, and that scalding mouth skirts down to his throat. Under his jaw, a sensitive spot that Slade finds easily, teeth sharp. Clumsy, Bruce angles as best he can, and mouths Slade's neck too.

Tastes hot skin and sweat, the dull flavor of ash. He sucks hard enough to bruise most, and only gets a quiet laugh for his efforts. Bruce nips his skin, useless but enjoyable.

"Not likely, little human." Slade's hand wanders down, none too shy in dragging him closer by his ass. Bruce grinds forward, a jolt of surprise in his gut at the hard edge of Slade's cock.

Bruce gasps when those teeth sink harder into his skin, _so_ close to breaking something delicate and valuable, the danger almost palpable. Feels almost dizzy with it, his hands clumsy as they unfasten Slade's pants and grip his cock before he can think twice.

Bruce blinks. "Fuck," he mumbles. Flexes his fingers around Slade's cock, trying to drink in the rough texture without lingering on the sheer size. He knew Slade was big, in all ways. But it's something else to feel it, hold it in his hands and be struck with such an intense need to be destroyed if that's what it takes. "Slade."

"Mm?" He hums, voice turned to gravel. "Find something you want?" For good measure, Slade thrusts into his hand, only reiterating the length. As if Bruce could forget.

"Gods," Bruce mutters, and squeezes hard. Not quite like scales, but close, the texture of hot skin turned rough. "Want you in me."

Slade suckles a new bruise into his neck. "Anything you want." And then there's a second hand beside his, wrapping tight over Bruce's fingers and guiding him into a rough, unrefined motion. "Gonna make you feel so good." He growls.

Bruce nods, a little mindless. Jerks Slade off sloppy and quick, never quite able to make his fingers meet around the width. His own cock throbs between his thighs, desperate for a little more attention.

"You'll never want anything else." Bites Bruce's jaw tightly, not quite drawing blood. "Gonna _ruin_ you."

"Oh, _fuck_ —" Bruce breathes and ruts against Slade's hip. Sparks of pleasure build in his gut, but it's not enough, and he's already come once. A growl of his own escapes. "Get in me, then." He punctuates the words by withdrawing, working to shove Slade's pants down and out of the way, the both of them hurried in undressing.

Skin-to-skin can't come quick enough, Bruce not kind in the slightest when he helps Slade discard his clothing and bare miles of pale skin. He'd think the man never got any sun, if he didn't know better. The dark scales stand out proudly, a roadmap of where Bruce wants to lick and bite until his mouth is numb and Slade's had his fill.

And that _cock_ , he could spend days trembling his way through orgasm on it. Could feel every thick inch, driven mad by every ridge, _ruined_ by every powerful thrust, and never get tired of it.

Slade grips his cock tightly, devilishly handsome when he smiles with all his teeth. With his other hand, he reaches out, fingers steady when they trace his jaw. "Open up." He says, barely words, and Bruce obeys.

Disappointment almost wells up when Slade doesn't climb onto his chest and fuck into his mouth, quickly washed away by a thick finger sliding home instead. Bruce suckles hard, tastes blood and sweat, gets it wet as he can before another is added.

All throughout, Slade holds his gaze. Pins him there with just a stare and fucks his mouth slowly, gently. Never enough to choke him even with the claws that drag against the flat of his tongue. He's careful, something tender in the motion, and Bruce feels a little flayed open when he withdraws his fingers. Saliva dripping onto Bruce's chest is the only noise, besides the crackling fire.

"Turn over." Slade stares him down, chest rising and falling heavily. Strokes his cock leisurely, one pale hand against the dark skin of his cock, almost black that bleeds into rich purple. A knot at the base of his cock doesn't escape Bruce's notice either, a slightly terrifying prospect when he's already so large.

Bruce swallows the excess saliva pooling in his mouth, his tongue still tingling.

"I'll be gentle." Slade adds, almost sweet if it weren't for the smirk.

"I don't want you to be." Bruce replies, and tries to sound sure about that as he shuffles onto his front. It's a deeply vulnerable position with a wyvern climbing over his thighs, and then two rough hands dig into his hips possessively to drag him up.

"Perfect." Slade rumbles. Smooths one hand over the swell of his ass, fingers greedy as he gropes. It shouldn't feel so good, simply being so touched, Bruce's cock heavy between his thighs.

One wet finger circles his hole, and then another. Two. Bruce braces against the rickety bed, and tries to relax. Moans at the first sink in, Slade pushing in hard, no room for adjustment. He slides home, a beautiful drag of sensation on Bruce's insides, and holds there.

Bruce exhales shakily. Bites his lip and whines as those fingers curl inside of him, stretching him, and he'll have to get used to the burn if he wants the rest. Slade pulls out to the tips of his fingers, lingering, and then pushes in again, all the way to his knuckles.

"Fuck, fuck," Bruce whispers, all the breathe knocked from his lungs when Slade spreads his fingers and tests his walls. "Good _gods, Slade._ "

"You can forget about those," Slade murmurs lightly. "I think I'll be the only thing you worship from now on." A shiver runs down his spine at the words, let alone the tone of Slade's rich voice, the surety there. He thrusts in again, fingers strong when he spreads him wide.

"Actually, we don't worship gods anymo—" He chokes as a third finger is added and Bruce sees nothing but crackling fire behind his lids, dancing like fireworks, _fucking perfect._ It has been such a long, long time. Slade moves things along fast, but he's careful, too. It's never painful, only filling, so filling in fact that Bruce can't make a noise when Slade sucks on a fourth finger and adds that as well.

"Well I remember those gods, little one." Slade says, his voice turned deep and rough. "And I know they have nothing for you to worship that I can't provide."

Just when he thinks he can't take any more, Slade pulls out entirely. Hooks two fingers against Bruce's throbbing insides and tugs, a pleased hum from his chest when Bruce is lax and forgiving. "So good for me," Slade bites out, something a little hissing and animal about the words. "Gonna take it all, are you? Let me knot you, sweet little human, make you _mine?"_

Bruce jolts at the slap to his ass, Slade's hand splayed wide over his skin. Nods into the threadbare sheets and breathes heavily. Faintly, he hears Slade spit, and then feels damp skin press against his ass. Feels it this time when Slade spits again, slicking up his cock, and it is _not_ enough but Bruce's dick says he shouldn't care.

"Deep breath." Slade warns, gentle as can be when he lines up with Bruce's already abused hole. If he could curse, he would, the head of his cock barely tapered and incredibly intimidating.

"That's not enough." Bruce tries, a little alarmed by how quickly the heat of Slade's skin is dissolving the saliva.

"It's enough." Slade brushes off. The bed creaks when he shifts, and Bruce gets the feeling he's being climbed onto like a dog in heat when Slade somehow presses closer, adjusts until he's at the perfect angle to settle his weight on Bruce's hips. "You'll do perfectly."

Bruce inhales sharply, and can't let it go for anything when Slade rocks against him, edging inside. Bruce's eyes screw shut, braced against the growing width of the tip of his cock, and he whimpers when he feels the crown settle in.

"So good," Slade murmurs, breathless himself. His palm is damp when he grips Bruce's shoulder and digs his claws in. "Hold still."

No more warning is given before Bruce's entire world narrows down to the glacial force inside of him, Slade sinking home inch-by-inch. It takes forever, and feels like no time at all, the seconds ticking past with every ridge and the slight swell of his knot that stretches Bruce to his limits.

His walls tremble around the intrusion, every involuntary movement sore already and Bruce can do nothing except moan into the bed and grip Slade's hand on his shoulder tightly.

Once he's to the hilt, Slade settles. Rests his hips against Bruce's ass, warm enough to make Bruce sweat now, a noise almost like a purr in Slade's throat. He squeezes Bruce's shoulder. Bruce squeezes back.

Maybe Slade was right, maybe he really will worship this for the rest of his life. The cock inside him rests heavily against his prostate, a constant pressure that has his own cock leaking heavily, delicious in how frustrating it is.

"Move." Bruce mumbles. Can't string together much more than that, so he settles for repeating it into the bed with need. "Slade. Move."

"What's that?" Slade asks, entirely rhetorical. Amused. "You want more?"

 _"Slade—"_ Whatever he'd planned to say next is stolen as Slade begins pulling out, the tip of his cock scraping Bruce's insides until he can't help but whine. A shiver follows when Slade stops abruptly, the widest part of his cock pushing Bruce's limits.

Slade's fist might be kinder than this, if he's being honest, and that thought alone makes his dick pulse with need.

It starts all over again, the formidable push in that hits every sweet spot Bruce has ever known and then some with dizzying accuracy. The third time is easier, heat buzzing under his skin by the fourth, and at the fifth Slade snaps his hips forward with enough force to jolt him.

Bruce gasps, knuckles turned white against the sudden wave of pleasure. The snap of Slade's hips turns insistent, a measured pace seemed designed purely to have Bruce unable to think, unable to breathe. He pants into the bed wetly, and bucks back against the cock splitting him open.

"Mine." Slade growls, and his hand comes down on Bruce's ass again, leaving a stinging handprint. He fucks into him like he's starved, like Bruce is the first warm body he's come across in centuries, buries his cock where it belongs and makes sure Bruce knows it. "You're _mine."_

He settles his weight across Bruce, curls around him like a cage. They couldn't possibly be closer, Slade's mouth latched onto his neck like a brand, his cock grinding in harsh circles, a weight so strong Bruce's lungs protest.

Bruce cries out when Slade finds his prostate, bucks uselessly against the wall of muscle above him, unbearably warm and every inch of skin sticking. Slade hits that point again, and again, and again, drives a spear right through Bruce's system, leaves him drooling into the sheet with ragged moans.

It's blinding, and all he can do is take it, Bruce's inner walls struggling to tense at all now. Slade drives deep, crushes against him as the movement turns into pure rutting. Animal need and an animal voice in his ear that spills filth, soft words wrapped up in a guttural tone.

Every roll of his hips becomes slower, somehow more powerful, and Bruce notes dimly that his knot is swelling, beginning to catch on the abused ring of muscle with every move. Steady but sure, he's stretched beyond his limits, can do nothing except fumble his hands and hold onto the wyvern. One hand finds a jutting horn and he drags Slade close by it, listening to the words that come out of Slade's wicked mouth and claim him entirely.

The first pulse of his cock is almost scalding on sensitive insides, and it doesn't stop after that. Fills him up with every harsh twitch of his cock, as though Bruce has any room to spare around the cock impaling him.

Even once his knot has swelled impossibly, Slade still rocks into him, squeezing pleasure from every wrecked nerve. "So good for me, sweetheart." He rumbles. Bites Bruce's ear, sharp points of teeth scraping against oversensitive skin. "You'll be so good for me, won't you? Be _mine_. Mine forever, little human, keep my children safe, keep my cock warm, _so fucking good for me_ —" He snarls, grinds into Bruce and sends him straight over the edge.

He can't whimper, can't moan. Just shakes through it, cock pulsing as he comes, every thought dissolving for an overwhelming minute. Slade holds him through it, cages him in and crushes him to the bed. Kisses his sweat-damp hair and mouths at his neck.

Bites the soft junction of his neck and breaks skin. Bruce jerks, a broken noise in his throat, his vision gone a little blurry.

Slade's snarl turns to a rumble, warm and pleased. It feels good, knowing he did that. That he brought Slade to the very edge, knot tying them together and he _knows_ what that means in some distant, far-away sense. He knows what it means. He whines as Slade's knot swells a little more, still not reached its peak, the fire licking his insides only registering as _good._

Pain is some unfathomable thing right then. The teeth buried in his shoulder are claiming, a thrum in Bruce's chest that will only ever feel good, better than anything he's ever had. Ever will have, too, and he knows he's gone. Ruined.

Slade hums, his hips finally stilling. His hands trail down to grip his hips again, hold him still as he's filled and then some, as he's all but _bred_ and the only thing keeping him sane is knowing that won't stick. Hot fingers flex against his skin to leave thick bruises.

Bruce breathes through it, lungs still trembling, and finds comfort in the weight over him, the heat inside of him. Eventually, Slade seems to stir, dragged from the depths of animalistic claiming to slide his teeth from Bruce's muscle, swiping over it with his tongue.

"Good." Is all he says, an almost slurred word.

Bruce hums, noting the warm trickle of blood onto the bed, staining the sheets. "Yeah," he replies, voice hoarse and abused. "Good."

He stays still and pliant as Slade finishes, watching the fire crackle in its hearth, his body warmed inside and out irresistibly. Time passes slowly like honey from a spoon, Slade's knot coming down as his orgasm slows, a pleasant feeling after the building pressure.

He stays in until it's gone down entirely, and now the width of Slade's cock isn't half as formidable, not when he knows how it feels to be claimed. Mated. Mindlessly, Bruce traces the curve of one of Slade's horns, his fingertips catching on the sharp point.

Neither of them are particularly ready to move, Slade lazily sucking on his skin and Bruce feeling exhaustion begin to kick in. Never mind the mess they'll have to clean up. He dips his fingers into soft hair, and Bruce falls asleep there, skin still buzzing with his orgasm. 


End file.
